


Between the lines of fear and blame.

by Michaelssw0rd



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angsty as heck this has been a warning, Guilt, Heavy Angst, M/M, Medical Jargon, Mental Breakdown, Minor Character Death, Surgeon's Guilt, Surgeons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-07
Updated: 2017-07-07
Packaged: 2018-11-28 23:40:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,095
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11428671
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michaelssw0rd/pseuds/Michaelssw0rd
Summary: The first lesson you learn is that in an OR, everything is under your control... to an extent. Your skill can only go so far, and when you step inside, things don't always turn out the way you were expecting.And sometimes, when you are least prepared, the very worst can happen.(Or alternately, Merlin loses a patient on his table, and tries to deal with the consequences)





	Between the lines of fear and blame.

**Author's Note:**

> This is written for [Kill Will Fest](http://killwill-fest.livejournal.com), arranged by absolute DARLINGS that are [Pelydryn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Pelydryn/pseuds/Pelydryn) and [Schweet_heart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/schweet_heart/pseuds/schweet_heart). Thank you so much for going through the trouble, and to everyone in Chatzy who held my hand through this story, and encouraged me, and pushed me to write it in the first place... Thank you. 
> 
> Also SPECIAL THANKS TO KATIE FOR THE BETA. Seriously... this story is so much better because of you. ♥
> 
> It wasn't an easy story to write, but my heart feels all the more lighter for writing it.

An OR is not unlike a prayer room. Both require a certain purity before you step in. Both require a certain humbleness, the acceptance that your best might not be enough.

Merlin scrubs his hands. It’s a routine. Mind numbing, methodical and repetitive. Lather, rub and rinse, and repeat.… hands above the elbows, not touching anything, the water running gently from your fingertips to the elbow. He raises his hands and pushes his way into the OR, mindful of keeping his hands in the air, and tries to remember that he has done this hundreds of time.

It’s difficult when he sees that smile. His best friend lying on the table, while the anesthetists and nurses carefully prepare him.

“I hate you,” Merlin mouths, folding his hands in facsimile of a prayer as he waits for the tray to be set up, and watches Will’s face light up.

“Love you too, Merls.” He doesn’t even bother keeping his voice down. “Try not to suture your initials in the stitches.”

Viciously, Merlin thinks he would do just that. It would make for a bigger scar than a mere appendectomy warrants, but it would also serve Will right. ‘ _Don’t get attached to a patient_ ’ advice doesn’t work when your childhood best friend insists you be the one who operates on him.

He comes to stand by his side as they are putting on a mask anyway, panic bleeding onto his face. Will smiles, all teeth and reassurance-- stupid, he should be the one reassuring Will--and nods. “My life in your hands doc!”

Merlin stares at his clasped hands in front of him and realizes why this is a place of worship as much as of healing.

***

With time it gets almost easy. Methodical. The person on the table reduced to a small square of bare skin; the history, achievements and dreams of the patient vanishing for the time it takes from the first cut to the last suture.

Intestines all look the same. Blood spurts the same way. It’s amazing how, just skin deep, the differences of race, gender and status just evaporate.

So Merlin snaps on a pair of gloves, holds his hand out for a scalpel, and forgets it’s Will he is operating on. His mind already on the next step, and the next. Make a Lanz incision, expose the external oblique muscle, split and retract, reach the peritoneum, find the appendix…

It’s almost a dance, a well-choreographed one. Instrument placed in his hand the moment he extends it, the blood being wiped away before he asks, the spotlight on his performance making him sweat, but there is no stage fright. They have done this same routine too many times to stumble anymore.

And yet.

The monitors beep, and the anesthetist jumps to his feet.

“His blood pressure is dropping.” He says, calm--there is no room for panic in OR-- and a nurse rushes to his side. “Adrenaline, 1cc, STAT.”

Merlin freezes, the well learned procedure forgotten. He doesn’t see the pink of flesh and the red of the blood anymore, his eyes glued to the man who it belongs to. In that moment he realizes how much it matters.

In that moment he realizes it’s too late.

The BP keeps falling, the heart rate erratic, oxygenation critical, and he can do nothing but watch as the life Will had entrusted in his hands half an hour ago slips from his fingertips.

**

He closes the incision later, with precise subcutaneous stitches. They tell him he doesn’t need to… it doesn’t matter anymore.

Merlin doesn’t listen.

He pushes and pulls the needle through the skin, neatly, until the evidence that the operation ever happened is almost invisible.

The only proof of it is in the flat line on the monitor, and the way Will’s heart is not beating anymore.

**

You take off the gloves, and there is no blood on your hands.

It’s as easy as that.

**

Arthur finds him in the changing room an hour later. He doesn’t know who went and told him, and he isn’t sure he appreciates it.

Everyone had left him alone. They didn’t even make him call it, even though as the surgeon it was his job. Gwen had tried to talk to him, but he had flinched when she touched his arm, and she had backed off. He won’t be surprised if it was her who called Arthur.

As it is, he can feel Arthur staring at him from the doorway, not moving closer. He wants to tell him to go away, but instead he looks up and meets his gaze. He deserves all the censure he knows there will be.

There is no accusation in his eyes. There’s only concern. He doesn’t know how to deal with that.

“I killed him,” he mouths, not even a whisper leaving his mouth.

Arthur is beside him in a second, kneeling in front of him. “No, you didn’t.” Merlin closes his eyes, but Arthur touches his face, “Hey. Merlin. Look at me. You didn’t kill him.”

Merlin laughs. He knows Arthur will say anything to soothe his conscience, but that is one lie too big to swallow. Even Arthur must know that. “I killed him.”

“He died of anaphylactic shock. It wasn’t anything you did. Please Merlin, listen to me. You did nothing wrong.”

Merlin looks at him, uncomprehending. Will was alive before he entrusted him with his life. He wasn’t alive anymore.

“ _I killed him._ ” He hasn’t been so sure of anything in his life. Arthur’s eyes are watering, where his are completely dry. A strangled sound leaves Arthur’s chest, and he hugs him, holding on tightly.

“Oh Merlin.” He rubs his back, comforting. Merlin doesn’t know what he is comforting him for… he did all the damage here. “I am so sorry.”

Merlin lets himself be hugged, his eyes open and unblinking, Arthur’s words incomprehensible, the shrill alarm of flat line still ringing his ears.

**

Merlin does the math.

1 in 10,000 are seriously allergic to anesthesia.

Mortality rate in those situation is 3-9%.

Chances of Will dying because of anaphylactic shock were 0.0003%.

They had not factored in the variable that was Merlin.

**

His mother calls.

She cries a lot. She tells him she loves him. She asks him to come home to her.

Merlin nods and says he will.

He doesn’t.

**

“Come to bed, Merlin.” Arthur touches his arm gently, leading him towards the bedroom. Merlin follows. He doesn’t have anything better to do.

Arthur slowly strips him and pulls him into the shower, washing his hair under the warm spray, and then towels him dry. His touch is firm and comforting, and Merlin doesn’t even realize how stiff he had been until the tension leaves his frame. He would’ve fallen, but Arthur’s strong hands break his fall.

He finds himself shivering, and Arthur is quick to bring his night clothes. He reaches for them. but Arthur shakes his head and dresses him gently. Some part of Merlin appreciates it. He doesn’t think he would’ve had the coordination to do fine motor tasks.

He is so tired.

In bed, Arthur molds himself around his back, hugging him, his lips pressed to Merlin’s neck. “It will be okay,” Arthur promises. “You will be okay.”

Sleep is far away from his mind, his eyes wide open. But Arthur’s steady breaths, rhythmic, are like a lullaby, and somewhere around the middle of the night he falls into dreamless stupor.

**

The ceremony is beautiful.

Will’s parents died when he was young. Merlin and Hunith are his only family. She begs him to speak at his funeral, but he declines it firmly. It seems disrespectful.

Arthur had taken care of all the arrangements, and Merlin is grateful. When he tells him that, Arthur squeezes his hand, kisses him on the forehead, and tells him he loves him. Merlin hears the words-- the words that he used to clutch to his chest and cherish-- and wonders if they will ever feel the same way again.

He contemplates leaving. Going away. Where? He has no idea. He just doesn’t feel fit for polite company anymore. But something in the way Arthur holds onto his hand whenever he can keeps him there. He has already done enough damage.

Hunith speaks in his stead. She talks about how Will was a son to her, and she will miss him dearly. All eyes are wet, and Merlin finds he has no tears to shed. Arthur speaks too. Talks about how important Will was to Merlin, and the past tense is the only thing that registers to Merlin.  _Was_.

As if dying takes away his importance.

But isn’t that what death does?

He does get up to look at Will one last time. He is in a suit-- he used to hate those, but Hunith loved him in them, ever since prom night. She had dissolved into tears, so proud of her boys. Will looks like he is smiling, teasing Merlin by pretending. Any moment it feels like he would open his eyes and say, “Gotcha.”

His hand, when Merlin touches it, is ice-cold. “I am sorry.” Merlin mumbles quickly, before walking away.

It’s too little, too late.

**

“I don’t think it’s a good idea, Merlin.”

“I am fine, Arthur.” He pushes past him to start scrubbing.

“Merlin… Will died a week ago. You aren’t ready to go into the OR yet.” Arthur looks at him carefully, as if waiting for him to shatter.

“I said, I am fine.” He snaps, and something shutters in Arthur’s eyes.

A minute later, he sees Arthur start scrubbing at the basin next to him. He looks at him in confusion, only for Arthur to answer. “I will assist.”

Merlin takes offense to Arthur practically babysitting him, but grinds his teeth and doesn’t protest. He knows his heart is in the right place.

He is fine when he enters the OR, his steps sure.

He doesn’t flinch as the anesthetist asks the patient to start counting as he goes under.

His voice is steady as he asks for a scalpel, his hands stable as he positions it precisely.

It is when he makes the first incision and sees blood beading from the skin that everything falls apart. The skin under his gloved hands is Will’s, the blood is pooling, the blood pressure falling, and Will is dying all over again.

He doesn’t realize he has backed into the wall, scream stuck in his throat until Arthur is in front of him.

“Breath, Merlin,” Arthur begs, his hands on his face, shaking him. His chest is burning but he doesn’t know how to make it better. “Breathe.” He takes Merlin’s hand and places it on his own chest, murmuring, “In…” and Merlin follows the motion, “And out.”

On the third breath, he screams. Arthur follows him down on the tiles and wraps him in his arms, murmuring unintelligible words of comfort. He starts sobbing after a few minutes, but Arthur doesn’t tell him to stop crying.

Merlin doesn’t think he could have.

**

Dr. Gaius sends him on forced leave, his rejoining conditional on psych evaluation. He nods, knowing that was a good decision on the Head of Surgery’s part.

He is a danger to the patients.

**

Arthur finds him in the bathroom, and Merlin doesn’t look up, intent on getting the stains out. He has been rubbing for what feels like hours, but he can still feel the slickness of blood coating his fingers, the metallic smell of blood still lingering. He rubs and rubs and rubs, the water scorching hot, and it’s nothing like how scrubbing for surgery is. He feels like his hands will never be clean enough anymore.

He hears Arthur curse and rush towards him, pulling him away. He resists it, but Arthur turns off the tap.

“I need… I need…” Merlin mumbles, trying to explain.

Arthur holds him tightly for a moment, murmuring a broken “Merlin,” and tries to pull him away again. When Merlin doesn’t move, Arthur pleads, “Please, Merlin. Please let me help.” Merlin caves. Maybe Arthur can make the feeling of blood on his hands go away.

Arthur makes him sit down on the bed, and takes his hands in his palms. “Fuck. Look at what you’ve done.”

Merlin stares at his fingers, hardly identifiable, wrinkled skin, small cuts, and would-be blisters, as Arthur brings out the first aid kit.

“Idiot.” Arthur whispers, and it is full of sadness and affection. Merlin lets him bandage his hands, because he knows it will make him feel better.

He has not been a good boyfriend lately. But he can give Arthur at least this much.

**

Merlin plays with the food on his plate, not having any appetite. He can see Arthur watching from the corner of his eyes, and after a while Arthur sighs.

Merlin tenses his shoulder, bracing for a fight.

Instead, Arthur just pushes his plate away and asks, helplessly. “Do you want me to go away?”

That makes Merlin look up, startled, and hurt in a way he didn’t think he could be anymore. Arthur looks wretched. Like he hasn’t been sleeping well, and in the hindsight, maybe he hasn’t been.

“Do you…” He swallows, his throat dry. “Do you want to?”

Arthur runs a frustrated hand through his hand and curses under his breath. “Of course I don’t want to. But I feel like I am just making everything worse. It’s been weeks. You don’t eat. You don’t sleep. You don’t talk to me. Close up at the remotest offer to listen. You don’t even  _look_ at me anymore.”

Merlin stares at his fork, not knowing how to explain. Not sure if there was anything to explain at all.

“I am seeing you withering away, and it’s killing me.” Arthur’s pain is written in his words, in the hitch of his voice and Merlin clenches his hand into a fist.

He hurts everyone he touches.

“I am sorry.” He smiles sadly, not having any words to express how he feels.

Arthur takes one look at him and is by his side in a second. He takes Merlin’s hand in his own, and Merlin doesn’t pull it back. Arthur looks at him, earnest, and begs. “I want to help. Tell me how. Please.”

Swallowing, Merlin thinks about all the things Arthur has done for him. As much as he wants to let go, Arthur is holding on, and he doesn’t want to disappoint him again.

He nods.

**

The first time is a disaster. Five minutes into the session, the psychiatrist says, calm and full of faux sincerity, “It was not your fault.”

Merlin stands up and walks out.

He goes back the next week. Arthur’s hopeful face when he went back, his tentative smiles all week, are motivation enough. He had thought he had nothing left to lose, but he realizes now that he doesn’t want to lose Arthur.

He won’t fight for himself… but he will try and save Arthur.

The second time is an odd stare off. They exchange barely any words, looking at each other for the whole hour, gauging, calculating, until it’s time to leave. Merlin murmurs a quiet “Thank you,” and finds that he means it.

It gets easier after that. As easy as ripping apart barely closed wounds and making himself bleed once a week can be. But as a doctor, he knows the importance of cutting away dead tissue, of debridement. It is the only way to heal.

Wounds like his never close up neat and clean. They leave scars, ugly and permanent. They change you. But they do heal… eventually.

**

Merlin gets the all clear from psych two months later. He takes another two weeks before he is ready to step into the hospital again.

Whatever he is expecting, it is not this. Nobody points fingers at him. There’s no mutterings behind his back. Not even a stray pitying look thrown his way. Life in the hospital goes on, undisturbed, everyone too busy to pay attention to him. He exhales a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

His friends stop by to say hello, Gwen hugging him, Lance clapping him on his shoulder, and Gwaine ruffling his hair. Arthur shows up during lunch hour, bringing two sandwiches, and asks him how he is doing.

He isn’t sure and tells him as much.

Arthur grins and kisses him on his forehead before heading off to the OR.

Merlin does not stray towards that direction, lingering in the outpatient clinic, relearning how to be a doctor who saves lives, rather than the man who killed his best friend.

So he puts on his coat, wears a smile, and greets the next patient.

“Hello. I am Dr Emrys. I will be your doctor today…”

**

It’s just a piece of paper.

‘ _Thank you for looking after Papa_.’

Written in a child’s writing, with a golden glitter pen. Surrounded by a dozen stars in different markers. Merlin looks up, knowing his face is betraying all his emotions. The little girl hides behind her father, shy, and the man laughs.

“You made quite an impression on her last time.”

Merlin had been the man’s surgeon seven months ago when he needed his gallbladder removed. He only remembers because it is in his files. The girl peeks from behind his father’s back, finds him watching, blushes and hides again.

“She wanted to thank you, and her mother is encouraging her artistic skills.” He pats his daughter’s head, smiling. “Anyway. It’s nice to have you back, Dr Emrys,” he says, before shaking his hand and leaving.

Merlin flops back in his chair and doesn’t ring for the next patient for another half hour. He holds the paper in his hand, as if something precious, staring at the words until they blur in front of his eyes.

Everything is not magically okay.

But maybe it can be.

Maybe there is still hope.

**

It is a routine. Wash your hands, under the nails, in between the finger webs, rinse and repeat. It is mind numbing, methodical, and repetitive.

It is also a privilege. A responsibility.

Merlin knows that now.

He enters the OR, hands clasped together, but not just because the move kept them from touching anything unsterilized. Walking towards the table, he looks at Arthur on the other side, the harsh OT light illuminating the concern on his face, and smiles gently. Just because you stumbled once, doesn’t mean you forget the steps.

“Scalpel,” he asks, and the dance begins.

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is very different style than my usual, and the story very close to my heart... I will be very pleased if you guys tell me what you thought of it. ♥


End file.
